


We should dance

by WauryD



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WauryD/pseuds/WauryD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime reflects on the evolution of his relationship with Brienne, caretaker-turned-friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Brienne/Jaime fic I've ever finished, first time posting on Ao3. Constructive feedback is very welcome! 
> 
> I've voluntarily left the general settings (where they are now and where they were in his memories) undefined because 1) I'm not good at describing backgrounds yet and 2) I focused more on the feelings than on the surroundings. ~~It is also kind of an extract of a fuller story in my head that I don't yet feel able to put into words properly.~~ Well apparently I'm writing all of it now.
> 
> Additionally, it wasn't beta'ed, so feel free to point out typos and such :)
> 
> Also, I will never apologize for any pun.
> 
> Again: constructive feedback is very welcome!

“We should dance.”

Jaime got up from his wicker chair, a sheen of sweat making his skin reflect the light of the torches. Despite the breeze going through all the open doors and windows, it was still a tropical night, and Brienne stared at him, unfazed, at his suggestion.

“Why would we do that? Unless you hope we’ll drop of heat exhaustion in order not to be conscious through this wretched weather?”

He smirked as he walked around the table and held his hand for her, which she ignored, looking at him. There had been a reasonable intake of alcohol that could justify the boldness and the lack of judgement in the choice of activity. He just wanted to have some fun and, if he was honest with himself, be closer to her.

“Come on, we’ll do something slow. Like, a tango or a salsa.”

Knowing he wasn’t convincing at all, Jaime somehow knew Brienne would take his hand anyway. He wasn’t the only one who had been drinking and, if he had been reading the past few months half correctly, probably not the only one who perhaps felt something more than their friendship. They had been quite affectionate with one another recently, small tender gestures that he received like brandings into his flesh, burning and indelebile. A strand of blond hair softly tucked behind his ear. Folding his right shirt sleeve up as fingers brushed against the skin of his arm. A hand on his jaw to turn him away from her as she tried not to giggle from the silly things he whispered to her at the theatre. Pressing her fingers on his right wrist in a calming massage when it got tense and painful.

He’d tried to return the kindness however and whenever he could. Appreciative comments on her cooking as he leaned his head on her shoulder, watching her prepare a meal (even though she would laugh, say something about him not having tasted it yet, and playfully push him away when he tried to nick a piece of food). Playing distractingly with her fingers as they watched television (although he’d be pressed to remember anything from the program when that happened). Steering her along with fingers brushing her elbow in events (because her arms were the only things she allowed exposed in soirées, but then it felt less awkward when he placed a hand on the small of her back as he introduced her to people). Admiring her earrings in an absolutely unsubtle stroke of her ear, conch to lobe (she’d always smirk and raise an eyebrow at him, to which he always replied with an innocent look).

There was very little chance of Jaime pushing it further himself, however much it was haunting him. He wasn’t sure how well she understood her importance in his life now, and often he wondered if he’d just wait too long and see her fall for someone else. It was then both longing and anxiety that bit at his heart, with the nagging thought that she’d probably be less present in his life were she to start a relationship with anyone else. Would he be able to live with that?

 

Brienne had turned into a rock in his life from being a pebble in his shoe. She’d been in the army of help that had flocked around him when he lost his hand, though he’d never been quite sure what her title had been. Follow-ups on his physical therapy, replacing the nurse he’d driven to tears to assist with day-to-day task at home, eventually ending up becoming some sort of personal assistant. The whole time, denying him the right not to move, not to care, not to live. Pushing him to heal, not just his wrist but his mind. She’d allowed to be pushed away but always returned. Like a fucking mosquito.

But the mosquito had also become a friend. Their bickering (mostly driven by his own cynicism and snark, he had to admit) had slowly turned playful and a staple of their relationship, Brienne calling out his bullshit the moment it left his lips. She forcefully brought him back to reality whenever he erred on the self-pitying side, an assured grounding that Jaime somehow ended up finding comforting.

“What do you think of me?”

The question had come unexpected, both to him and her, after a difficult session with his therapist. He’d been trying to explain to the lady how much Brienne annoyed him in being always right, always there, always helpful, and the specialist had replied something to the effect of the annoyance reflecting more on his perception of himself than on his friend. That perhaps what he disliked was how accurately she saw him, despite it being precisely what he wanted.

Somehow, in the half hour or so between that moment and meeting Brienne to be driven back home, he’d turned it around and started wondering how she perceived him (also why he felt it was relevant in any way, she was an annoying woman after all). 

And without thinking, the question had come alive.

They were just exiting the elevator, and Brienne turned to him in surprise. Then her expression turned thoughtful, and she was quiet for what felt an eternity. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” he’d added, starting to regret not keeping his mouth shut and getting angry with himself. 

He’d tried to go past her in the hallway towards his flat, but she’d caught his wrist - the one with nothing at the end. “I’m simply trying to find the right words,” she explained, with a look that stated he was acting like a child (again). He probably was, but he was scared. Suddenly he felt that he didn’t want to hear the answer at all, he didn’t want the disappointment of knowing she felt indifferent or that he was a spoiled man-child (which he firmly believed he was, at this point, and was trying to improve on).

He tried to get out of it. “It’s fine. I guess it’s not a good idea to answer that kind of question about your... customer.” He wasn’t even sure if that was the basis of their relationship, if he could be considered a client, but saying that he was his boss didn’t feel right either. Was her salary paid directly or through the health agency he’d met her through? He wasn’t handling it. Right then, panic was slowly creeping in his gut and his brain was definitely considering the flight option.

Jaime had tried to take a step away from her but she’d tightened her hold on him. A second passed, and she’d released his wrist, beginning to answer as she did so.

“I think that... you’re a very sensitive, private man who wants to do the right things, but doesn’t always know how. Getting wrapped up in those goals and frustrated when you don’t see where to grasp things. You’re nicer than you allow people to see, maybe because you feel that they already have a negative idea of you. But I think you’re getting better at it. You’re a good person. You deserve to have people know that.”

He was speechless for a moment. Brienne seemed to have left out most of the bad things he thought obvious about himself (self-centered, blasé, condescending, sometimes even downright mean) but while he knew her to be naive, she wasn’t stupid. She’d seen all of it. And somehow decided to look past it.

That was not an answer Jaime had even hoped to get. It had been humbling, to have someone you’d been hateful toward say that, still, they didn’t think the worst of you. He’d lowered his eyes and replied “thank you” softly. A heartbeat, and he could feel her smile at him, the way she would when she caught him doing something nice for no specific reason.

“What about me?”

His head had snapped back up to look at her. “What do you think of me?” Her annoyingly blue eyes stared at him with a playful smile in them and he felt his mouth dry up. What could he say? I’m not objective because with each fucking passing minute I realize how deep of a crush I have for you? When he had stayed quiet for too long, she’d moved forward with a soft laugh (startling him) and taken his arm in hers, pulling him towards the door of his apartment. “I’ll take that as a compliment, usually you’re pretty colourful with your language!”

Jaime had objected, saying that he hadn’t been foul-mouthed in a long time, and she’d reminded him of that bad day the previous week when he’d alternatively grumbled then shouted the worst things at other drivers on the ride home. She’d always been amused at how frustrated he would get when she drove him, considering he wasn’t even behind the wheel. He hung to that topic like a lifeline, unable to come up with a decent answer to her question, or to even string cohesive thoughts on the matter. She didn’t bring it up again. Brienne was very good at allowing him to skirt subjects she felt him uncomfortable with, unless it was somehow crucial to address. 

Later that evening, slouched on the sofa in front of a television show he hadn’t paid the least attention to, he had watched her get dressed to leave. Then he’d blurted it out.

“Strong. A mountain. I mean,” he added, seeing her cock her head at him in mock indignation, “you’re the kind of person that will weather other people’s idiocy, remain virtually unchanged and carry on. You’re a rock. And still you’re...” He searched for the right word. “...hospitable. Welcoming. I don’t know how you do it. You don’t suffer fools and yet you still hang around me. Maybe you’re a masochist, or something. I don’t know.”

He’d been rambling and it unnerved him. His thoughts had been a lot more coherent before he’d opened his mouth and had her stare at him. She seemed deep in thought for a moment, then came to sit at the other end of the sofa.

It seemed an eternity before she spoke, not looking at him. Then she told him how she’d been relentlessly either mocked or pitied by everyone on her home island. To her face and to her back, in hushed voices that she pretended she couldn’t hear or in large booms of laughter. “Whenever I hear people laughing around me, I still have the reflex to wonder if they’re laughing at me,” she’d said softly, and Jaime had felt more guilt than he ever thought possible about the offhand comments he’d made about her looks in the past.

“But... all of this allowed me to understand pain. To understand what it makes people do, because in the worst moments of my self-hatred, I wanted to hurt people. Not always, or only, the ones who’d hurt me. I wanted to... share, propagate that pain to alleviate it in myself. Sometimes I had the occasion to do it, and I got into fights with my bullies. Then I started to win. Then they were less brave about insulting me. It kind of died down, eventually. But hurting other people never made my pain go away. It strengthened me, in some way, with the confidence that I didn’t have to be helpless when facing others’ taunts.”

He’d felt empty, listening to her tell him of the hateful things she’d had to live with, knowing he’d been part of it. Empty and sick.

“In the end, I’ve gotten good enough at seeing when people are just hitting at me with the rage of their own suffering, not because I deserve to be the target, but because I... look like one. It just comes easily to people to aim at people who are different. I don’t let them hit, and I’ll push back when needed, but I understand why they do it.”

Brienne looked up at him, with a soft expression. He knew she was talking about him, which made him feel even more shitty. He averted his eyes, afraid they might well up with tears if he looked into hers for a moment more.

“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered. That seemed so fucking weak, he almost laughed at himself.

“I’m not sure I am,” she replied, sighing. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and I wouldn’t go through it again, but it’s part of who I am. It shaped me. A bit like,” he heard the smile in her voice, “a mountain is shaped by the weather.”

Jaime smiled too, though still staring at his lap. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at her again. Of course he’d assumed that she’d been bullied, but hearing it from her, with the sadness and, still, some pain in her voice, he hadn’t been prepared for that. Although she probably hadn’t been prepared to live it, either.

His snark returned more easily than he had thought it would. “So, am I allowed to make mountain jokes now?”

He met the stern look she gave him. “Unless it’s to say that I rock, no, you’re not.”

He’d chuckled. “Oh, I’m quaking in my boots!”

She’d looked at his feet pointedly, then back at him. “You’re not wearing boots.”

“Oh come on, don’t give me that altitude!”

“Jaime.” She rose. “If this is the pinnacle of your humour, I am at fault for thinking higher of your intellect.”

He stared at her, jaw dropped in mock indignation. “Geology humour? This is reaching new depths!”

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she turned away, picking up her back. “Goodnight, Jaime.”

The smile in her voice was audible. He replied to the closing door, “Goodnight, Brienne.”

 

So standing there, in the heat, almost at the end of their week-long vacation in the south, he knew she would take his hand, and complain the whole time they’d dance, and have fun. And he’d revel in the brush of her skin against his, and in her movements and her strength, and in the smiles that both her eyes and lips would shine at him.


	2. This is not a tango.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions are not always the most accurate, but sometimes they reflect more on us than on the people we meet.

“This is _not_ a tango.”

Brienne _had_ taken his hand (always a strong grip, never a painful one), arguing as she rose that she didn’t know how to dance either the tango or the salsa. “I’ll teach you,” he’d replied with a paternal expression that made her laugh. She couldn’t imagine him dancing either.

He’d put on a random, fast-paced song on his phone before throwing it on the couch, turning back to her. Twists, turns, back and forth, making her long, flowy dress billow around their legs; he didn’t dare try to dip her with only one hand. She was heavy (there was little grace in her movements, but strength and confidence regardless), and the last thing he wanted at this stage was to accidentally drop her.

Brienne had protested soon enough that whatever he was doing was neither of the dances he’d promised. It wasn’t. It didn’t have to be, he just wanted to move with her, to watch the way her muscles worked, extending and contracting in response to him. He smirked and replied that she wouldn’t be able to recognize that, not knowing the steps. She was amused. More importantly, however, she didn’t let go. The hot hair echoed with their laughs, mostly drowning the sound of the music. It didn’t matter. His soul seemed to follow the swaying of their dancing, elated with infinite possibilities.

They stopped after only a few happy minutes, Brienne having correctly predicted that the heat might be a bit much. “Okay, I need to breathe now,” she chuckled, immobilizing him with a hand on his arm. She was so close. Her short, straw-blond hair stuck to her skin, which had considerably reddened from the heat, the exertion, and the alcohol. Her blue eyes were still mocking him, still the warmest shade of blue he’d ever seen.

Jaime wouldn’t dare. He stood in front of her, his left arm set loosely around her waist. He focused on the rise and fall of her chest, lightly pressing against his own as it did so, on the small laughs that came with it. On the heat of her skin, surrounding her, inviting him. Not even a half-step and he could kiss her...

...but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It was still contenting him to be allowed into her life, into her arms (occasionally: she’d never refuse a hug, but he wouldn’t abuse it, either), into her affection. She’d showed it in so many ways (that he had not always recognized or appreciated at the time) and while he’d thought for a long time that he didn’t deserve it, he’d let her in. And she had bloomed in him.

 

He’d been numb and vacant when Brienne had first entered his hospital room. Staring ahead, unable to process the pain, the loss, the inexplicable hole that he felt gaping in his chest (his ribs were fine, though he felt the hollowness through them). He had a vague impression of the poignant fear that had seized his whole body after the accident, once he’d realized his hand was gone. But even that tension felt foreign, as though it hadn’t happened to him, and he was remembering someone else’s memories.

She was hard to miss, and harder even to ignore. Taller and with shoulders broader than any woman could have a right to, she’d strode in confidently with a “Good morning, Mr Lannister,” immediately going to the window to push open some of the curtains (keeping care not to have sunlight fall directly in his eyes), as she introduced herself. He caught nothing of it. The sun warmed the room enough for him to realize, distantly, that he was a bit cold. He’d vaguely considered pulling up the covers from around his waist, but that would have implied moving. Nothing was worth that.

She’d come to sit on a plastic chair to his right, pulling it to the bed in one swift movement (only Tyrion had used that chair, and he’d joked he might stand on it. Jaime hadn’t laughed. Cercei hadn’t come). For a moment, she hadn’t talked, observing his empty stare. She hadn’t looked at his arm.

He hadn’t wanted to turn his head. If he could have, he’d avoided blinking (keeping his eyes closed produced images he didn’t want to revisit, which was worse than blinking). He’d laid in his bed, his limbs feeling like stone, unable and unwilling to summon the energy to change anything. Itches had come and passed on their own. He’d sometimes felt anger bubbling fiercely underneath, like a promise of strength returned, but it always faded without the fuel to turn it into anything else, or even the will to reach into it. He’d been fed, cleaned, talked to, ausculted. He had vaguely wished he would stop existing.

He hadn’t wanted to turn his head, but he did. Brienne was still watching him, an odd expression on her face (it was a mix of sympathy, compassion and resolve, something he’d later learn to recognize when directed at him).   
She was not pretty. Her traits were unflattering at best, her mouth too large, everything lacking femininity, up to her short, thin blond hair, styled carelessly (probably with her hand, too many times a day). With her height, her shoulders too broad and barely any shape under her shirt, she was probably the ugliest woman he’d ever seen. He’d never given much attention to most of them, but this was spectacular.

The bubbling anger had returned, with more heat than previously. Jaime knew it wouldn’t die down this time. Her mere existence seemed to fuel it, as if her appearance had been designed to incense him. She still hadn’t talked since sitting down by his side, but he knew he’d hate her the moment she did.

“How are you feeling?”

Something had either broken in him, or reclicked into place. Somehow everything flowed again, the searing pain in his wrist (he was only on low doses of painkillers, something about his father not wanting him to become addicted), the loss, the loneliness, the fear. Everything got flooded in anger, that somehow didn’t spill outwardly. He looked at Brienne, whose expression was slightly altered (bracing herself for an outburst, she’d seen his countenance change), still waiting for an answer.

He’d said cruel things. She hadn’t seemed to mind much, so he’d redoubled his efforts. She’d talked about physical therapy plans, ignoring his attacks, when they would happen and what they would entail. She told him he could go home in less than a week, to which he’d replied, seething, that he could go home whenever he fucking wanted. That was the first of the many “if you want to keep acting like a child, I swear I will treat you like a child” looks she’d give him. He’d stopped talking after that, refusing to look at her. She added something about help at home, and when he didn’t answer, took a deep, quiet breath (he still heard it), and left with a “Good day, Mr Lannister.”

Everyone else had apparently braced themselves for his abuse since. The nurse who had come in after Brienne had left had barely flinched when he’d struck the platter she’d brought him breakfast on (he was still reeling from that stupid woman's visit, so he stayed hungry, which made him even nastier). The following days were difficult for everyone, but he’d started sleeping better. For some reason, being irrationally angry the whole day seemed to be exhausting. He’d still wake up from nightmares, in pain, gritting his teeth so strongly that his jaw hurt, and fell back asleep hating the world a little more.

Brienne had visited him again the day he was allowed to leave, to present him a packet of documentation concerning his physical therapy sessions. To everyone’s relief, by that point his anger had turned from physical aggression to vicious insults mostly, the staff’s tolerance to the latter already well-established from numerous past difficult patients. He’d scoffed. He had refused to attend any of the sessions while he was at the hospital, did she really think he’d return for them? She told him again about the help he would be getting at home, and added in no uncertain terms that she expected him to show up for his appointments (Jaime had replied in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t). “I will see you on Thursday, Mr Lannister.” She’d turned away and left him glaring. 

Jaime had been driven home in a town car with Tyrion, sulking the whole way. He hadn’t said goodbye, exiting it at his building; he hadn’t greeted the doorman who’d tried to be friendly about his return. He forgot to tell him not to let anyone up to his apartment. He got home, got undressed (getting angry and swearing when he struggled), and needlessly slammed his bedroom door before dropping in his bed.

And there, alone and miserable, the hate finally turning inward, he’d cried until he fell asleep.

It had been a new challenge, waking up, having no one to force him to eat, dress, or even get out of bed. He’d stared at the ceiling illuminated with daylight (he hadn’t thought of the blinds when he’d arrived), feeling empty and sore. It was harder to stay angry when there was no one around, he found, and without anger there was also no energy.

He briefly wondered if Brienne would visit him (he was annoyed at the thought, surely he just apprehended having to watch her distasteful face).

No one had bothered him the whole day. His mood alternated between loneliness, annoyance, and numbness, and frustration came up whenever he tried to do something. Television was boring (all those people, unaware of his personal tragedy), he couldn’t concentrate on reading (the pain of his wrist was stupidly distracting) and there was little he could try to do without having to engage a maneuver in which his right hand would be sorely missed. 

In the evening, finally, Tyrion came up. Jaime was in a foul mood by then, and he wouldn’t have recognized it, but he needed help. His brother made sure to drive that point home, preparing him a simple meal out of a can (how do you use a can opener with only one hand?). He had been tasked with helping his older sibling adapt in the first few days, but the parting of the previous afternoon had left him thinking both that Jaime wouldn’t accept it readily, and that he deserved to see his own struggle before anyone had to endure his temper. It partially worked, and he watched him eat ravenously (cereal bars only get you so far), sullen and quiet.

The nurse who’d come to help a few days later had a different experience. Two days and a half (he’d surprisingly lasted that long), and the man left the apartment upset and in tears. Jaime had vaguely felt victorious, that he’d made a point. He hadn’t been sure against whom, but Brienne was still on the edge of his mind (he imagined she’d have rolled her stupidly blue eyes at him, hearing what he’d done). He still had to attend a therapy session of any kind, and although he now found himself without help (would they send someone else?), he felt it was a statement of independence. And, to some extent, rebellion.

He had not expected to see her at his door the same night. Apparently, a decision had been made very fast, and Tyrion (the traitor) had provided her with a key to his apartment, and a letter to the doorman that she was to be admitted at all times. She explained at him (he was still staring at her as she strolled past him, leaving a clean scent in her wake, had she just showered?) that no one wanted to step up to endure his vitriolic temper, so she would. She would be there at eight every morning, help him with breakfast, then drive him to whichever therapy he had that day, return with him for lunch and make sure he had something manageable for dinner. As she talked (he didn’t bother interrupting, her tone made clear that it wasn’t a discussion), she went around the apartment, taking in the mess (partly intentional, it was an inherent element of the torture of his nurse), opening cabinets (he protested, only to be given a stern look, then shut up), checking the laundry room. She told him that if he didn’t have a maid, one would be hired for him (he was disappointed that he wouldn’t watch her pick up after him).

Brienne was taking charge, and he was somewhat annoyed that he was kind of glad. It would provide him with some mental sport, he thought, unlike the feeble soul they’d sent first. Unlocking his phone at her command (no, _request_ , he could have refused if he had wanted), Jaime wondered if he could make _her_ cry. He’d have a lot more time to try, with her constantly on his heels. She entered her cellphone number, sent a message from his device to hers, then handed it back. He had been tempted to delete and block the number, but that’d have been no fun (maybe he could pester her during the night when the nightmares kept him up). 

She had finally made to leave, reminding him again that she’d let herself in if he didn’t answer her knocks, regardless of his state of undress (she shouldn’t be giving him ideas). “Goodnight, Mr Lannister.”

“Jaime.”

She’d looked at him oddly, seemingly waiting for something other than the statement of his name. For no reason, he felt flustered. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like they were on a friendly, first name basis. “Mr Lannister is my father.” He had hated himself for the cliché, unable to think of anything else to save his dignity with. Brienne had been quiet for a moment more (that was really unnerving), then with a neutral expression, corrected herself.

“Goodnight, Jaime.”

 

Jaime had closed his eyes and moved slightly forward, leaning his forehead against Brienne’s. He was a bit shorter than her, which she’d always been amused to underline when she wore heels at the events she attended with him. He felt her smile, looking at his peaceful expression, the hand on his arm playing with the hem of his sleeve. He remembered the fury that had burnt him seeing her for the first time, how destructive it had been in him, and smiled in turn at the contrast with this perfect moment. He could feel her body breathing in, and exuding the same heat he felt inside, familiar, comfortable, comforting. She was alive in his arms, happy, with her life and with the night and with him. He wondered if he needed anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not nearly as happy with this part as I was with the first, but it's satisfying and I'll live with it. Feedback even more appreciated :3
> 
> There is at least a third part in the making (well underway, even) but I don't know how far I'll be taking this. Enjoy (I hope)!


	3. Vanilla, or chocolate?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first day under the rule of the Maid of Tarth.

The thought of ever having  _ more _ with Brienne was still divisive in Jaime’s mind. What if it didn’t work out? What if, simply, she didn’t want that much of a relationship with him? Would she leave? Would she be embarrassed and distance herself?

Again, the nagging fear of seeing her slip from his life took his heart, dropping it to his stomach, as the reminder that she might find someone else to spend the rest of her life with intruded. His breath hitched in his throat and he pulled her against him in a hug, hiding his face in her shoulder. He’d felt tears threatening, and it seemed like a terrible way to waste that night. 

Brienne wrapped her arms around his shoulders (they were long enough for it) and leaned in the embrace, a finger trailing at the nape of his neck. Before long she had both hands on his back in slow, calming strokes. She had once again, somehow, instantly felt the change in his mood and addressed it. He breathed deeply, sweat and soap and sunscreen and  _ her _ , trying to ground himself in that moment. She was there, with him, for at least one more day. They’d return to the city soon, but the fact that she’d agreed to this vacation, to this dance, to this sort of hug, there couldn’t have been anyone else waiting back home. And she wouldn’t make a quick commitment either. There was too much reserve in her emotional life. If it had to happen, it wouldn’t be in the immediate future.

Having reassured himself somewhat (which was more cowardly pushing the issue to the back of his mind than solving anything, he knew), he sighed, pulling away from her. She stopped him from moving too far, then placed a hand on his shoulder, near his neck, her arm against his chest. Jaime knew she could feel his heartbeat, wondered if she understood why it thrummed so fast (he wasn’t sure himself: the dancing? Her closeness, her touch? The terror of losing her?)

She looked at him with a concerned smile, blue eyes soft and aware. “Are you okay?” He nodded, unsure he’d find the right words not to spill everything. He smiled, closing his eyes again. 

“‘M just tired. And kinda drunk.” Brienne let out a soft laugh, tugging then pushing him towards his bedroom. She watched him skip from their path back to the table to finish his drink. Jaime didn’t want the night to end just yet. But he let himself be dragged away, then pushed to sit on his bed. He pulled her to him with his hand and wrist around her legs, just above the knees, leaning his head sideways against her stomach (it was firm, under the light fabric that was sticking to her skin). The distant sounds of her breathing and her heartbeat reached him and he smiled in the dark, trying not to sigh. It would still pass as drunkenness. She stroked his hair for a moment, strangely quiet, then pulled away.

He smile at her, knowing she wouldn’t see it in the shadows. “Goodnight, Brienne.”

It wasn’t quite the same kind of tone he was used to when she replied. “Goodnight, Jaime.”

Sleep took its sweet time to relieve him from the torment of analysing those two words.

  
  
  


She had been true to her word and had roused him from sleep every single weekday since she’d announced she was taking over, the first of which she’d presented him with a schedule of regular appointments (from the untouched folder she’d given him, probably). Not just physical therapy - he would also be meeting with a psychologist, and attend a support group. He’d refused all of it (for good measure, as he mostly objected the last two) with cold rage. There was no way he’d go and pour emotions into vapid ears. They were scandals waiting to happen (or so he vociferated at her, uncomfortable at having more of his masculinity stripped by the aftermath of that stupid accident. A hand had been enough) and as a Lannister, he would not let that happen.

There had been a slight roll of eyes, he was sure of it, but Brienne’s tone was equal when she reiterated that he  _ would _ go, as she worked on making breakfast (her pancakes were fantastic, he’d discover, but he wouldn’t tell her that). His firm “ _ No. _ ”, for once, seemed to signal to her that it was an actual obstacle she’d have to accept. He’d held her stare, using his anger to strengthen his stance. She hadn’t replied, and given him his food, cut into pieces.

Once he was dressed (he’d refused to let her shave his beard, she was not getting that kind of intimate task), she’d sat on the livingroom couch and waited. Flat in the middle of it, her long arms along the back, basically taking all the space (he wasn’t going to sit that close to her). She wasn’t even looking at him, but he knew her intention regardless. She wouldn’t win.

He'd ignored her and gone to his office, unintentionally slamming the door. He had wanted to try and watch TV, but now he couldn't. He vaguely thought of switching on his laptop and put on loud porn to embarrass her, but that felt too tedious. He flopped and laid down on the sofa that held too many memories of Cercei, hoping they would guard him against thoughts of the beast in the other room, despite their bitterness. In vain.

Nearly an hour passed in silence, even though Jaime had soon grown restless. Against himself he strained to hear movement outside his door, both frustrated and relieved that there were none. If this was a test to see if he would crack first, he wouldn't give her that pleasure. 

Barely a minute from that thought, a victorious smile flashed as he heard Brienne shuffle outside. The office door opened and he got a faceful of his own coat. "Come on, loser, we're going shopping."

Hating that he got the reference, he'd sat up and eyed her angrily. She stated that she'd wrestle him out of the apartment if she had to, adding with no uncertainty that she would win. He'd lost a lot of weight and muscle in his convalescence, so there was little doubt that it was true (somewhere in the back of his mind, though, there was a thirst to know how she would fare against him at full strength. He hadn't considered it before). He commented on her ungainly musculature. She patiently pointed to the door.

The first of their intended stops had been the grocery store, and it felt disturbingly domestic to follow her as she added things to the cart when he grudgingly agreed to them. Every item felt like a confession of some part of himself, a reveal of his identity, as though she could read him through the food he liked (he got flustered when she'd presented him with two containers of ice cream, "Vanilla or chocolate?"). 

Brienne paid for the order and he made no move to stop her (surely they would be billing it to him in some way). Exiting the store, it took her a moment to realize that Jaime was not following her to the car (he'd ranted against her older, but well-maintained and reliable model), but had veered next door towards the liquor merchant. She had followed him at a distance, allowing him to choose without making a single comment. He still felt the weight of her presence if not that of her eyes on him, knowing that his impression of being judged was unwarranted. He didn’t even really like getting drunk, but it felt like the kind of self-pity that she would frown upon. 

He was looking for a third bottle (holding the two first precariously between his right forearm and his ribs) when she told him sternly that it was enough, moving closer to him to signify he should head off. He'd glowered at her, snatching an additional one with a defying glare once he had reached the register (to his great frustration, she looked amused and said nothing). 

Only then, putting his hand on the empty back pocket of his trousers, did he realize that he didn't have his wallet. There were no words for the burning embarrassment and shame that crept up his stomach in that moment. He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw to the point of pain, and expected to snap any moment, scream and cry and break anything within his reach. He felt sick, both of his situation, of his limitation, and physically ill, a wave of nausea welling up and threatening to reach his throat. 

Callused fingers slipped around his handless wrist (he didn't move, but the wave backed down) (she didn’t even have soft hands like a proper woman, gods), as Brienne stepped up beside him and paid the cashier. He was about to walk off without looking at anyone, shaking, when she stayed him with a hand on his arm, and he turned to look at her with eyes that betrayed the hurt and anger he felt (despair, maybe, none of which he had wanted her to be privy to). She had a slightly concerned, mostly neutral expression as she handed him the bag with the bottles. He took it and walked silently to the car. 

Not a word was said on the way home (Jaime had the vague feeling that it hadn’t been supposed to be the extent of their outing) and he had been grateful for it. There was still much tension at the edge of his lips and it would certainly tumble down with far more than he’d ever intended to share. If he could just keep it together until he could barricade himself from her (physically or psychologically, none of which he could attain confined to the small space of the car), he might still have some dignity left.

He didn’t push the door behind him hard enough for it to close as he sat down on his bed, hand clutching his temple. His wrist was burning, and he felt dizzy, as though suddenly his body emptied itself of its substance. The moment he felt a vise on his sternum, Jaime tried calling out to Brienne, but the pain made it difficult to breathe. She was still there in an instant (or what felt like one) and he heard himself wheeze that he was having a heart attack.

There were warm hands on the clammy skin of his neck, his face, and he felt her push him backwards, flat on the bed. He resisted, convinced that his ribs would crack from extending his spine (they didn’t). Air washed in his lungs and the pain in his chest eased somewhat, but he still had the reflex to grasp the first thing that fell under his hand (her thigh: his fingers tried to dig for a better hold, but the muscle crisped and his hand was pried away easily by her own). He heard her say that it was not a heart attack, but a panic attack, and that he would be fine. He didn’t  _ feel _ fine. He tried pushing her away, getting up to get help himself, angry that she would put his life in danger by trying to show him up. It had been true: she proved in that moment that he was not a physical match for her anymore, as she held him back down until he stopped struggling.

“I think I know what a heart attack feels like,” Jaime had muttered, even if he did feel significantly better than a moment prior. She had her other hand on his arm (as the first was still in the tight clutch of his fingers), applying heavy strokes on the length of it in an attempt to help him calm down.

“You’ve never had a heart attack.” It was stated simply, and there was no reproach in it. Brienne wasn’t trying to antagonize him, but to push away the doubts that might have lingered about his immediate safety. “The symptoms can be mistaken for one. You're fine. You just need to let it pass.”

His heart was still thundering and he felt like he’d just run a marathon, sore all over and unable to catch his breath. His eyes were already lined with the tears that had come with the whole struggle, but fresh ones were rising, and shutting his lids tightly couldn’t dam them. A few sobs shook him, his right arm coming to rest over his face in a protective motion, as though it could hide his weakness from her gaze.

Jaime couldn’t have told how long it took for him to settle down. He was falling asleep, exhausted, as he felt her maneuver him into a proper sleeping position on the bed, pulling off his coat and shoes. He curled into a ball, barely registering the cover she pulled over him.

When he awoke, the sun had set.

The remains of the tension from the panic attack (clearly she'd been right, he supposed, as he was still alive) had reminded him of the accident that had caused all of this. He realized that he had slept for numerous hours without being disturbed by a nightmare, possibly a first since he’d lost his hand.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he tried to stretch to alleviate the soreness of his muscles. The fear of being about to die had surprised him, earlier: he had fleetingly considered, in his hospital bed, that there wasn't much more to go on for (a diminished man Cercei wanted nothing with), but faced with an imminent threat, he'd fiercely wanted to live. The possibility that it might all have ended then had raised a different type of fury in his blood, one he knew but had not expected to have survived. 

The lights in the kitchen and the living room were on when he exited the bedroom. Although she was supposed to leave shortly after lunch (which he'd slept through), Brienne was sitting on the couch, reading one of his history books, raising her head towards him when she heard movement. She did not have the concerned expression he'd glimpsed on her face when she’d come to help him, but there was empathy and relief in her coarse features. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Jaime made a quip about her doubting her own diagnostic and playing with his life. She replied something to the effect of not leaving him to wake up alone and disoriented. There was a covered plate of pasta on the counter for him to heat up, and as he reached it, he realized that she had put only one bottle of alcohol on the counter.

Confused, he'd asked about the remaining two. “I'm taking them with me,” she'd explained, continuing before the interruption he attempted, “One is more than enough for tonight, I'll bring them back tomorrow. You slept the whole afternoon, so you might not be able to fall back asleep for some time.” (The liquor would help with that, he'd argued) “I'd rather avoid finding you passed out with alcohol poisoning in the morning.”

He'd made her change the bottle out of spite (she’d had the thoughtfulness to make sure the seal was broken and the bottle openable. It annoyed him for no reason). 

Once Brienne had gone, he had a go at the pasta (that was not her strength, it was overcooked, he felt vindicated, she wasn't perfect) (of course she wasn't, why would he ever consider that), not eating much before trying to find something his stomach would be more comfortable with. He wondered if she had bought any ice cream after all (he had refused to give an answer on the flavour at the store, and walked away).

Opening the freezer, Jaime was somehow, inexplicably, disappointed to see she'd chosen vanilla (did he look like a vanilla kind of guy?). He still took out the tub, grumbling to himself, and had to fight the smile that tugged at his lips, discovering the bottle of chocolate sauce Brienne had left in the cupboard that held the bowls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to have a lot of fun with this :D Jaime is a terrible child :D
> 
> Fourth part is underway. Criticism and feedback always appreciated. Sorry they haven't kiss yet :D It's not quite the right time. ~~let's ignore the potential of pulling the story further than my original plan, delaying that for longer~~


	4. We should try to make the best of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is little helping us more to grow than honesty with ourselves, and taking charge of our lives.

Brienne got up long after him, enough for Jaime to wonder if she had stayed up once he’d gone to bed. She emerged as the sun neared midday, looking worse for wear (it was endearing, really, and for a moment he forgot his own trouble at falling asleep). He’d forgotten that she usually didn’t drink much.

“Good morning, Brienne.” Unable to help it, he offered her a cup of coffee in the cheeriest possible way, as she squinted and pressed her temples with sounds of vague annoyance. He was not used to seeing her uncomfortable in any way: he’d often seen her blush (it was almost too easy to be entertaining, almost), but she rarely ever displayed any other sign of uneasiness around him. It made her seem more human (although she already personified humanity in his eyes, the best parts of it anyway), more reachable.

More vulnerable, as well, and Jaime knew it was the reason she let so little show. For so long, her role had been to support him, to guide him into recovery (whether he liked it or not), and he’d tried so hard to make a dent in her armour. It might have been a dance if she’d fought back rather than dodged and dulled his blows, but the only times she vaguely lost patience had been when he’d physically refused to move. She always made him. The actual dance they’d shared the evening before had seen them more physically matched, and he wondered who would win now, if they went at it.

An unsubtle thought of a different kind of choreography slipped into his mind, and he brought Brienne the aspirin and glass of water he’d set aside for her. He sat with her in a comfortable silence, sipping on his own, bitter cup.

  
  


The morning after his panic attack, she had turned up a bit later than she normally would have (how gracious of her, an extra hour to his short night). Neither of them mentioned it, but he knew she’d been glad to find the bottle of alcohol barely touched (he’d ended up eating half of the ice cream, with the sauce, watching science documentaries for most of the night, only taking a drink when the frozen dinner had made him queasy). The bacon and eggs she cooked for him had been perfect, and he pondered about her own eating habits (she was lean and muscled, surely she trained, and at her size she’d have to eat a lot to sustain it) as he ate.

“You’re not eating.” Brienne lifted her head from the history book she’d continued from the previous evening (a section about Ser Duncan the Tall, he glimpsed), raising an eyebrow at the mouth full of food he hadn’t bothered to swallow before speaking. He smirked. “Surely you’re not starving yourself.” She’d given a rare, serious frown at that.

“Eating disorders are not jokes, Jaime. Don’t use serious conditions you don’t understand as attempted insults, it reflects very poorly on your intelligence.”

He’d gaped at her as she returned to her reading. Clearly it was a sore point, though he knew she wouldn’t react that much if he’d tried anything on the subject again. For the first time, he was conscious of the respect he had for her conviction, and the temptation to push it further was short-lived. He continued eating in silence, and she added (without looking at him, was she cross?) that she’d already eaten, and that once he would be done himself, they could get on with the day.

The expectation of having to fight her on their next destination had given place to confusion when she’d asked him to gather exercising gear. When Jaime questioned her, she simply replied that she was driving him to work out. He stared at her, unimpressed.

“The gym. Wow. This is hilarious.”

Brienne had given him a look that implied “get on with it” and he’d held up his right arm, pointing to the handless wrist with his left. She had a small smile, almost a smirk, as though she found the idea that she might have forgotten about that risible, but said nothing. He’d sighed, rolling his eyes, and done as she asked.

The gym was in the vicinity of the hospital, but not attached to it. He followed her in with a bored look, deliberately not showing any of his apprehension at entering a den of physical prowess when he felt crippled. She’d greeted the receptionist, said something about an appointment, his name, and a lock, before ushering him through.

They went up to a tall, dark-haired man who was apparently supervising a lady (missing a leg up to her left knee) on a bench press. Almost imperceptibly, Jaime felt Brienne walk straighter, shoulders back, jaw set. It was the most wary he’d seen her, and it made him unexpectedly ill at ease. The man they met was introduced as Noah Locke, and she explained that he was specialized in adapting training to specific physical conditions (he was glad she didn’t use the word ‘handicap’). Apparently Locke was the best in the field, a compliment that felt surprisingly icy and stale coming from her lips. The man seemed to find it amusing, squinting at Brienne with a dangerous smile. She turned to Jaime, explaining that she would come to pick him up in two hours (he was disappointed that she wouldn’t train alongside him), and pointing to the changing room he could use.

He’d nodded, uncertain that he should leave her with him, unsure where the protectiveness had come from. He walked off, looking back to see her dodge the hand Locke had tried to land on her upper arm. She said something Jaime couldn’t catch, then left as the other man leered at her. Irrational anger rose in his chest, but he was going to face the guy for two hours. He calmed himself down as he changed clothes, wondering the whole time what had happened between the two (perhaps nothing, he seemed like a vile person in the first place). Comparing himself, he realized that he didn’t approach that level of disgust in Brienne’s eyes, and that he was somewhat proud of it. He was an asshole, but not that far gone.

The session passed quickly, once Jaime made it clear to his trainer that he needed space. There was nothing in the man’s behaviour that was directly  _ wrong _ , but it was obvious that him being a Lannister made him particularly, uncomfortably interesting to Locke. The moment his attention has been called away had been relieving.

Working out had often been meditative for him, and he relished spending his energy actively, feeling his muscles sore from the exercise rather than being crisped in tension. He had tried to ascertain how much Brienne might be hiding from him. He reflected on how she hadn’t lied, not a single time (he was sure of it, she was too direct and sincere and caring, it would have shone through if she had been dishonest), but while she was upfront with everything that concerned him, she was carefully reserved about her own thoughts and feelings. It was unnerving, to have her act like a one-way mirror, reading him so easily while he struggled to grasp anything about her.

As he showered, he realized he felt better than he could truly remember feeling (anything before the accident sometimes felt like a lie, as though it was something that could no longer exist in truth next to his new reality in his mind anymore), admitting to himself that Brienne had made a good call (thinking of her while naked brought a slight discomfort at the edge of his consciousness). The looks she had exchanged with Locke had been telling, and he made a decision as he dried himself off and dressed.

“I want another trainer.”

She had genuinely appeared surprised, as they walked to her car. Staring at him as he sat down, she asked if anything had happened. He  _ was _ the best in his field, and she’d really thought that Jaime would accept nothing less. “I don’t care.” (He’d been shorter with her than he intended) “He creeps me out.” She’d been silent for a moment, before agreeing quietly. He hadn’t complained when they’d driven to the physical therapy clinic, and had remained oddly calm for the rest of the day.

There was little doubt in his mind as to why he’d made that choice. While he enjoyed trying to push her buttons and make her react, he was conscious that she had somehow slipped under his defenses and become an unwanted, but crucial pillar in his recovery (and, as it was pretty much his only focus at the moment, in his life). He needed her, and Locke represented a danger. He wasn’t sure how, but the simple fact that he had raised that reaction in Brienne was enough for him to want to keep her far from the dark man. 

The decision had been doubly satisfying: not only had he somehow stood up for someone (in a way), she had also not challenged him (she hadn’t understood, but she hadn’t argued). The act had the distinct taste of taking control of his own life, and as he went to bed that night (after half a drink), he smiled to himself, knowing for once that he’d done a good thing.

She had eventually coaxed him into attending the support group and the sessions with the psychologist, although Jaime had put up a fight (it was some kind of reflex now). He’d been quiet, sullen and sulky at both, eventually allowing himself to whine at his therapist. He still only listened quietly to the others in the group meetings, but with far less resentment and far more respect, having realized that he’d felt, faced, and struggled with the same things that they expressed. 

At first, Brienne has visited him on the weekends as well, in the late morning, just to make sure he had everything he needed (he’d argued that he wasn’t a child, and she’d chuckled and replied nothing, handing him the jar of jam she’d been opening for him). As the weeks went on, however, she stopped. He was getting along quite well by himself at that point, often already preparing breakfast by the time she showed up during the week, more confident in his ability with his remaining hand (thanks, therapy). It had felt vaguely lonely, not seeing her at least once a day, and whenever she checked in by text message (“Everything okay?”), he’d tried to find a reason for her to come by, sometimes answering vaguely in hope she’d take the bait anyway (“Meh”).

He stubbornly refused to address the caprice in his own mind. He reasoned that she was supposed to be there, to help him, and that was part of it. She never complained, either. There had been one time when she was clearly going somewhere else right after (it had been the most ‘dolled up’ he’d seen her at that point, and the seemingly infinite legs at the end of her black, girly dress had flustered him), coming by for... he couldn’t remember what for, really. He had been shocked. She was even wearing a bit of makeup, and blue-sparkling jewelry that seemed too expensive for her (echoing the eyes that sometimes felt too pretty for her face). 

Jaime had a vague recollection of just staring at her, speechless, the whole time she was there (she’d told him to shut up the moment she walked in, but it had been utterly unnecessary). He had tried to find out where she’d been, the following week, but she’d refused to talk. The nagging feeling that there might be a nice, understanding, loveable boyfriend had made him petty for days. Brienne had patiently let him get it out of his system without knowing, or asking for, the underlying reason for it.   
  
  


He watched her as she wordlessly ate the toast he presented her with. All he wanted in that moment was to pull her to the couch to lay against him, and stroke her head and her hair and her shoulders until she felt better. Maybe she’d fall back asleep, and he could feel her breathe peacefully in his arms. He’d been tempted to sneak to her room to cuddle through the night (trying to convince himself that it would  _ still  _ pass as drunkenness), but the odd way she’d wished him goodnight had stopped him. He still didn’t have a clue what it might mean, and the last thing he wanted was to screw things up.

“What do you want to do today?” It had almost been a croak, and she cleared her throat, taking a sip of coffee, waiting for an answer. On the one hand, he didn’t want to subject her to an awful day (she didn’t quite look miserable, but they had yet to come out in the sun), but he also didn’t want to confess his thoughts, either. In the end, he opted for the truth.

“We should stay in. You look terrible.”

Brienne smirked with closed eyes. “I always look terrible. You used to tell me all the time.” A pang of guilt almost made him wince, and he averted his eyes. She was self-aware enough to make light of her appearance, and he knew that the comment was made in that spirit. Still, knowing that she would never reach the commonly accepted standards of prettiness, he saw her much differently than he had in the first weeks. Not only beyond that (she was probably the kindest, strongest human being he’d met), but also how it was so inherent to who she was. And the confidence she had in her identity made her looks all the more meaningful. Jaime was not in love with her  _ despite _ the unattractiveness, but in part  _ because _ of it.

The thought stunned him. He’d never put a word on his feelings, and for a moment he played with it in his mind, breathless. He loved her. It rang with a simple truth, clearer than his fear of being replaced by someone else, eclipsing his doubts about pushing it further. Everything, in that very moment, was light, and warmth, infused with the feeling of  _ her _ that was now so familiar.

Their gaze met, hers with an odd expression (she’d have felt his reaction without knowing the thought). He realized he hadn’t replied. “I was an idiot then, and I am an idiot now. I’m just trying to spare you the sunlight. And by extension, the headache.”

She smiled in earnest. “Don’t call yourself an idiot for nothing.” (She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly) “Gods, you’re so  _ stupid _ .” He smirked at her as she rose and headed back to her bedroom. He thought she’d go back to sleep, but she called out as he was putting the dishes away. “Didn’t you want to visit the palace?”

Jaime dismissed it, saying it didn’t matter. Very little did, at that moment, outside the house he’d rented, and Brienne in it. “Come on, it’s the last day. You’ve been talking about this vacation for a whole month. We should try to make the best of it.” She was strangely insistent, considering she disliked the crowds they’d encounter (too stuffy, and while she was used to it, she didn’t appreciate being noticed so easily for her pale, freckled skin and her towering height. Which was a pity, because he’d started to feel oddly proud to walk around with her).

Flopping on the couch, he sighed and resolved not to move from there. Brienne came out of her room, wearing a thin white shirt and cutoffs (if he’d been her, his face would have turned a splotchy red from the freckles on her exposed thighs. Instead he focused on her face). She gave him a chiding frown that he received confidently: gone were the times when he couldn’t hold his own against her. She went to him, tugging on both of his arms (he let her, amused), trying to get him to rise. He resisted, laughing, pulling her back towards him, and she gave up, letting herself fall to his side with a whiny, “Ugh,  _ no _ ”, her head on his shoulder.

Jaime made her settle down, her head on a pillow over his lap, his right arm along her own over her chest (her legs folded, resting against the back of the couch). Picking up the book she’d left on the side table, he told her to get some rest (holding the novel away from her reach as she tried to take it from him. He gave her a stern look, she stuck her tongue at him. He was enjoying this reversal of their usual roles). She eventually fell asleep, after staring up at him for a moment (he’d been terribly conscious of it, pretending to ignore it, eventually chancing a glance at her when he felt her breathing deepen and slow. She looked so peaceful).

He hadn’t expected his wish to come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fifth part is practically done, needs revising, and the sixth should be the last. 
> 
> Feedback and criticism are always welcome! ~~I know they don't kiss yet, I'm sorry~~


	5. "Of course. We're friends."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime finishes to let Brienne under his skin.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Brienne woke up after a few hours, although Jaime didn't notice it for several minutes (engrossed in the book he'd found boring at first, but been compelled to keep reading not to disturb her). She apparently took that time to observe him, as he discovered her attentive gaze in one of the glances he cast her every few pages (she reddened but held his eyes. He couldn't make out her expression, but she answered softly when he smiled at her: "Hey"). She looked around, replying a noncommittal "Mmm" when he asked if she was hungry.

The disappearance of her heat, of her weight when she got up was a loss he hadn't quite been prepared for. He was further unsettled by her unusual behaviour: she never used sounds for answers. She either didn't speak at all (waiting for him to fill in the silence, she had never lost the habit) or expressed exactly what was on her mind.

Despite the strangeness, Jaime couldn't bring himself to ask her what was wrong. The things that might come out as an answer (perhaps he'd done something irreparably wrong and the separation was already underway; maybe she was thinking of someone else, or just bored with him, it had nearly been a week) were not ones that he felt himself able to respond to.

But Brienne came back to him, setting down an apple, cheese and some crisps, and leaving again towards her room (she returned, and forcefully exchanged  _ her _ book for one of the novels she'd finished early on their trip) (he tried to protest, she argued that he didn't even like that kind of book, she ended up smirking at his sullen silence: things seemed to be back to their usual order). She settled back down, her head returned to the pillow on his lap, crunching down on the apple as she picked up where she'd left off her book. 

Perhaps he’d just imagined it.

  
  


Their weekly dynamic had slipped into a comfortable routine, as Jaime started to feel more at ease with himself. He was more daring in his attempts to return his habits to normal (whatever normalcy had been, he could recognize that it would never be the same). He felt that Brienne understood, by then, how his complaining and arguing had turned into peculiar displays of affection and playfulness. Both had become more relaxed around one another, although she was still reserved about her own life.

There had been moments when she’d shone a light on it, after that one time about the bullying of her childhood. She had talked about her home (Tarth: he’d never been, although he’d heard of it, but it had always seemed an uninteresting detour), her father (the way she talked about her family’s past had made him reflect on his own, unpleasantly), even a few hobbies: there were horses on her island, and she’d become quite a good rider.

Jaime had asked why she didn’t visit Tarth more often. She’d opened her mouth to answer, but closed it and looked at him pointedly, with an amused look. Understanding that she implied that she was attached to help him, he’d felt surprisingly uncomfortable at the thought that he might actually be a hindrance in her life. “I can take care of myself for a week or two. You should have a vacation.”

Brienne had laughed, mentioned how he’d almost fallen off the counter two days prior, trying to reach the heavy slow-cooker that had somehow ended up on a high shelf in the kitchen (he had barely ever used it before she came into his life, but he’d gotten more adventurous with food since). “Besides, when I go home, it’s usually for a month. My father is loathe to let me leave.”

“Can’t imagine why,” he’d replied with sarcasm (he felt that it was a bit too forward, and busied himself to hide it). Still, she did deserve time off, especially since she’d started to accompany him to events. 

As the projected heir to the Lannisters’ business and fortune, he had often been shoved into the public eye, in soirées he had been bored with before arriving, and marketing events his father has pushed him to attend. His accident had thankfully put a temporary stop to that circus, but his progress with therapy (of which Tywin Lannister was somehow informed, although not by himself) had brought back the obligations, much to his dismay.

There had been fights about his missing hand: his father was of the opinion that it would make people uncomfortable, and that he should get a prosthesis. To Jaime’s shock, Brienne had agreed, insisting that he could get state-of-the-art ones that would allow him more mobility and independence. He’d refused categorically. He was just getting used to functioning with only his left hand, used to  _ having _ only one hand, and a prosthesis felt both like cheating and denying his condition. She’d been about to give him another serious frown when he’d said that he had nothing against prosthesis,  _ he _ just didn’t want one (he was aware that it was slightly petty, but she’d respected it nonetheless).

It had had the bonus effect of giving him a reason to ask her to come along to those events Tywin still insisted he attend as a Lannister. He was going to have to shake hands, but also carry a drink, and exchange contact information... She was not impressed. Tyrion could help (“he hates those events, and he’s not obligated to go, so he doesn’t”), or he could easily find someone equally famous to accompany him (“Yeah, and then they’d have to go do their own networking and I’d be on my own again.”). For-hire eyecandy? (“They’re gonna feel really awkward about my hand and that’s going to make  _ me _ feel awkward.”) 

Brienne argued that she’d look out of place and that she didn’t have anything to wear that would be appropriate. He’d brought up the black dress he’d seen her in (it had been lent to her, apparently, he was disappointed), said they could just go shopping (she’d blushed at that and he wondered why). Jaime practically  _ begged _ her,  _ please _ , not to leave him to the wolves. She’d sighed, stared, frowned, but eventually said she’d find something for herself. He’d had an awkward, apologetic smile, and when pressed, said that she’d have to wear a different outfit to each event.

He might have cowered in front of her annoyance, but he  _ really _ wanted her to come (and to feel comfortable, good about herself, to know that she had her place in any sphere of his life). He knew a designer, she’d be delighted to work with her (he refrained from saying that the lady loved a challenge, unsure if Brienne would take it as a remark on her shape, or on her limited taste in clothes, both of which she didn’t appear to be in the mood to discuss). Money was brought up (“I’m paying for those, I’m the one asking you to come.”) and, with no other arguments to effectively counter his, she’d reluctantly agreed.

Despite both of their apprehension, it had been quite fun. For their first soirée, Olenna Tyrell had garbed her with a rich, dark blue pantsuit (he’d been adamant about the blue), and Brienne had almost looked at ease. While most people left them alone (he’d always been acerbic in those events and that was not about to change), he’d spent a lot of time informing her about the gossip going around on the rich and famous. She tried not to encourage him, but he often found the way to spin it just right in order to make her laugh. 

While Jaime had appreciated having the opportunity to show her off (he was strangely proud of how peculiar she was, how tall and unabashed she stood in the middle of people who couldn’t see how great she was), he’d realized that he much preferred to spend time with her alone. He started refusing many of the invitations he got (as many as he could get away with regarding his father), proposing one-on-one outings instead. She had agreed to most of them, usually refusing when they conflicted with the occasional other plans she had.

He’d never met her friends, and Brienne didn’t really mentioned them much either. He wondered if she was somehow ashamed of him in regards to them, or perhaps vice versa. Maybe she didn’t want to mix her professional life with her private one (a thought he disliked, not to be considered as close as he thought of her). He asked one day, when she’d declined to watch a movie with him later that night.

“Well.” (She’d taken her time to answer, and it had been awkward) “You’ve made one of them cry, so another one hates you by proxy. Another one on principle, because of your family. And the two that hate you are scary enough that the rest just don’t want to cross them.”

How could he have made anyone cry without meeting them? “The nurse, who came to help you at home before I stepped in because you were an ass?” Jaime remembered. “I just don’t think that anyone would be much inclined to be nice to you, even though you’re different, now. I haven’t managed to change their minds, either.”

It was alienating, to find out that he was not likely to ever be present in that part of her life. The fact that she’d defended him was a light balm on the matter, but it was still a very unpleasant realization. He had set out to convince her to let him meet them so he could apologize. It had taken much, and it had been incredibly awkward for him (he slightly felt bad for making the guy cry, but he had to show far more repentance to be forgiven. And he had. Brienne had seen through it, but she seemed to understand that he was trampling his ego in order to make her life easier), but it had worked. They would never love him, but they were more accepting. He could live with that.

The therapist had been right: he had wanted her to see him. Not just as a public figure of the Lannister family, not just as another patient or as that annoying title of “Most Handsome Man in Westeros” (that was ridiculous bullshit and he rolled his eyes every single time it was mentioned, while she smirked. It was  _ one _ issue). Jaime had been all those things to everyone and frankly, it had done him no good. 

He had never understood why he’d needed it from her, the person who’d been on the receiving end of most of his abuse during his convalescence, and he’d been surprised that she’d been willing to try. The number of times Brienne had observed him silently while he talked or complained, blue eyes he avoided like mirrors promising a painful truth. She had rarely offered advice after the first few weeks (which he’d stubbornly refused to listen to), staying quiet even after he finished his whining, letting him fill the silence with the logic he knew she saw behind his tantrums. Where that understanding of her mind came from, he might never find out (perhaps he had listened more than he had intended, after all). But her expression usually agreed when he voiced what he thought she saw.

It was reassuring, to know that someone saw who you were, faults and all. Jaime had ended up telling her things he’d never told anyone, confessions and secrets and memories that haunted him. That made his stomach twist in anxiety and regret as he voiced them. He’d live with them for so long, he’d gotten used to the bitterness they’d weaved in the back of his mind. 

With each story, he recognized the compassion in her eyes from the first time she’d laid them on him. Often mixed with other things, worry, sadness, sometimes a light, knowing smile (perhaps she’d experienced the same, in a way). She’d sometimes ask questions, usually about how he felt, and he poured himself to her. Every single time he told her something new that had come gnawing at his mind, he was terrified it’d be the last straw. That Brienne would finally see him for the disgusting person that he was and leave.

She didn’t, and he ran out of secrets. Mostly.

As Jaime had progressed with therapy, he’d realized that she’d eventually go back full time at the hospital, and care for someone else. He’d attempted to see if he could pretend to slow down his progress, a time when she was present at his physical therapy. She’d stared at him with the expression of a mother, looking down at a child blatantly slacking off on chores. He had proceeded normally. She’d picked a lollipop for him at the reception desk (he made a face at her as he took it).

Her friendship had brought out the best in him, eased off the bitterness of his whole life and of his new physical condition. His regular visits to the gym had brought back his strength (the new trainer was much less of a creep, and Brienne had consented to work out with him a few times, but it had been spectacularly distracting), physical therapy had provided him with dexterity and independence (he was able to open jars now), and while the psychologist had often felt superfluous (he had Brienne for forced introspection, thankyouverymuch), he had to recognize that she’d helped things along.

While he had stopped attending group meetings, as they were more aimed at people new to coming to terms with their trauma, he’d kept in contact with some of the members, even if he’d never ended up speaking in front of them. A generous, anonymous donation had guaranteed the continuation of the service, much to everyone’s surprise. Brienne had seemed proud. Jaime had denied everything.

He had started thinking about the future, something his previous life, much like a flatline in his mind, had never provoked in him. He didn’t want to take on his father’s business: either of his siblings were better suited to that (Tywin was very cold at the idea of Cercei succeeding him, and his distaste of Tyrion was not much better), and he just didn’t want that life. He had wondered about his possibilities (a brief thought of owning a ranch on Tarth had once risen, and he’d smile at it, but he didn’t know if she would want to move back there).

There was no denying that he wanted her in his life. There was also no denying that he didn’t know where he fit in hers.

The time came when she announced what he’d been dreading: he was autonomous enough to fare well on his own, and she would soon move on to help other people (while he felt compassion for them, there was also resentment). Though Jaime’s first instinct was to argue, he knew there was nothing he could say that wasn’t a lie (perhaps “I need you,” but that would have opened up something he wasn’t quite ready to delve into), and he’d just nodded. Brienne hadn’t appeared entirely happy about it either, and there seemed to be a fleeting disappointment in her eyes when he didn’t protest.

She had given him two weeks’ notice so he could arrange to get a driver (it would take him far less than that, but he hadn’t said anything), and he started planning a vacation immediately. “We should go south for a week. You deserve a break.”

Her laugh had made him tingle. “Is it still a break if I’m spending it with  _ you _ ?”

“Of course it is. We’re friends, I’m autonomous. I’ve visited before, I can show you around. You can just relax and I’ll organize everything. Bring your bathing suit.”

She hadn’t explicitly agreed, but she’d let him sort out everything (he’d known how passionate she was about history, having borrowed all of his books on the subject, and pointed to multiple locations that would be interesting to her, and activities, and restaurants), giving her opinion whenever he asked for it, seemingly amused.

The two weeks passed much faster than he expected. They’d set their departure two more weeks after that, and those were the loneliest Jaime could ever remember living through. Brienne would still check in with him occasionally, and he insisted to have her over for dinner so they could discuss the vacation, but he missed her. Terribly. There were no words for the hole it left in his life, and nothing he tried seemed to fill that void.

Spending all of his days with her for a week had felt like a deep breath, allowing him to get rid of the restlessness that had unnerved him since they had... professionally parted. He knew it to be a fix, and that returning home would only be worse than when he’d left. But she was there, with him, laughing and curious and excited, and he cast the thought aside. He didn’t know where it was heading, but he was determined to close his eyes and enjoy the ride.

He hoped it would not just end up crashing into a ditch.


	6. "Yeah, I know."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are sorted and settled.

“What am I to you?”

They had finally gotten out of the house, for a quiet walk in the ending day, the sunset allowing for a much cooler stroll. Jaime had wanted to take her hand, but the mood had been weird and Brienne, oddly silent.

Until she asked that question.

The first thing that came to his mind was, “The light of my life,” but it felt corny. Perhaps it would make her laugh. He liked it when she laughed. Instead he looked at her (they stared at one another, really), trying to convey his meaning in his expression, and he replied, “Do you have to ask?”

“I do, actually. It’s confusing.”

Was he really going to have to dissect it for her?

“You said we’re here as friends, but...” (She let it trail for a moment, but he didn’t interject. He wanted to hear what the objection was) “But last night we danced. And you were... really affectionate.”

“We were drunk.”

That was NOT what Jaime wanted to say. He cringed both inwardly and outwardly, but she just nodded and answered, “Ah.” He stopped walking, his hand on his brow, barely refraining from slapping himself. Brienne kept walking. He watched her back, missing the confidence it was suddenly lacking.

She had picked up the signs.

If she hadn’t felt the same way (even if she wasn’t sure of the meaning of those signs), she would have told him. Simply.

But she had to ask.

She would have told him.

He caught up with her, slipping his hand in hers, startling her. Looking right ahead, Jaime spilled it. “We  _ are _ friends, and we  _ were _ drunk, and you are the light of my life.” Turning to look at her, he found her staring, surprised, a splotchy blush on her face. He smiled sweetly, making sure that she wouldn’t mistake it for sarcasm. He returned his gaze to their path, to let her digest his admission, his fingers clammy with the apprehension of her hand slipping from his.

A heartbeat, and Brienne threw her head back in a booming laugh, startling passersby. “That was  _ horribly _ corny!” He smirked, chancing a glance at her, but she looked happy.

“Yeah, I know.”

He wondered for a brief moment if she might have thought he was joking, but her hand in his remained and she walked oh-so-closer to him. Chuckles and glances and smiles were exchanged and Jaime felt that he’d found an even brighter version of Brienne. She had always been a star, constant and unchanging in his darkness, guiding him where he needed to go. She had turned into his sun (though he couldn’t say exactly since when), bringing warmth back into his life. She had allowed him to heal, to build himself back up, providing just the right help he wouldn’t have known he needed.

They walked for a while more, in content silence. “So I’m not a mountain anymore?” she joked. He didn’t even have to look at her to see the smile she tried to contain in her voice, faking disappointment over her change of status.

“Hmmm, well, I guess you could be a volcano. That’s light  _ and _ a mountain, right? With the fire?”

“That’s also toxic smoke and ash and generalized destruction?”

“Yeah, but there’s rebirth after! Also you can create islands. And extend them.”

“And get virgins sacrificed to appease me.”

“I’m not a virgin.”

A beat, and they burst out laughing at the same time, both red from embarrassment. They strolled back to the house, more relaxed than they’d been in months.

They separated awkwardly once they were inside (kissing her felt ill-timed to him, for some reason, regardless of how long he’d been wanting to do it), both preparing to go to sleep. The first of their two flights was only in the early afternoon, but they hadn’t packed, and they had to drive for a few hours to reach the airport (he’d otherwise have had her up most of the night to talk, at the very least).

Jaime considered a hug, but the gesture now felt unworthy of what he wanted to convey. In the end, they settled for meaningful looks, and a soft “Goodnight”. It was a frustrating ending to the night for him, and he laid alone in his bed, restless, turning around in his head how much he missed her. It was ridiculous, she was in the next room, asleep, and he would see her in the morning. Just a few hours away.

Getting up, he fidgeted some more before stepping out of his bedroom, and into Brienne’s. He felt her move, betraying that she was awake as well. He hoped not to make her feel wary, and simply slipped into bed, on his side next to her, leaving space between them (not just to avoid making her uncomfortable, but also because of the heat). She was laying on her back, and she turn her head towards him. “Tell me if you want me to go,” he whispered. 

She felt for his hand, catching his right wrist and resting her hand on it. “Hmm.” He fell asleep listening to the soft sound of her breathing.

 

The room was filled with sunlight when Jaime awoke without her. The house was silent, and he congratulated himself on not freaking out about her absence. Yet. Still, he wondered, but her suitcase was sitting next to the drawer, untouched from the previous night. If he’d overslept and missed the flight, there was a chance that she had, too. More time with her in a place that forbid extensive clothing would not be unwelcome.

Brienne returned as he was stretching, waiting for coffee to finish dripping into the pot. A blush crept up her neck as she caught sight of his stomach exposed by his shirt riding up, which made him smile. He’d never considered it that way, but perhaps being “The Most Handsome Man of Westeros” might have advantages after all. He poured two cups as she set down the box she’d been carrying on the table, revealing pastries. Jaime sidled up to her, pressing a swift kiss on her shoulder, through her shirt. “Thanks.” He felt the shiver that went through her, and looked up. She seemed uncertain at first, but she smiled and bumped him away with her hip. “The danishes are mine,” she warned.

The rest of their time in the house was spent packing in a subtle dance of light touches. They both had a constant grin plastered on their face, even if they were about to return, technically, to their normal, separate lives. Neither of them really seemed to mind until the car ride to the airport, which definitely felt less joyful. Hands were held and shoulders leaned on, but the return was mostly spent in comfortable, meditative silence.

It was already late when her car finally pulled up to his building. Brienne was supposed to drop him off, and return to her own apartment. Her first appointment with a patient the next day was shortly past noon, so she would be able to rest a bit. Neither of them felt like parting, and the quiet between them echoed with weeks of untold confessions.

Watching her yawn, Jaime seized the opportunity. “You should sleep here tonight. You still have a half-hour drive to get home and you’re exhausted. It’s not safe.” While it was entirely true, she was not duped, but clearly amused. She smirked, and with a slight shake of her head, drove the car to the underground parking. The elevator ride had been slightly awkward, prompting him to reiterate that it was really safer. “Yeah, I know.” 

She stepped in his apartment a few moments after him, having lingered on the doorstep. “You okay?” He thought that, maybe, she was apprehensive about what this might lead to. He was ready to reassure her: he was perfectly content to lie next to her the whole night. She’d been looking at her keychain, and looked up.

“I still have your key.” She was implying that she should have given it back three weeks earlier, when he’d stopped being... her patient? Charge? “Should I give it back?”

Many things came to his mind (“Do you want to?”; “I already have one, thanks”; “Do you plan on robbing my apartment?”), but he settled once more for the truth (she’d been a good teacher).

“It’s yours.”

The two words were charged with much more, and lingered between them. Brienne put the keychain back in her bag.

 

The nights were much cooler in the city, and Jaime was happy to see her easily cuddle up to him when they finally went to bed, embracing her with a contented sigh. He was anxious to spend the next day without her. He pondered about matching their schedules, if another patient might end up taking as much of her time as he had. He would adapt, to whatever she needed from him. He had all the time in the world. Would she move in with him? The thought of a ranch on Tarth, filled with horses, returned to him like a promise. Maybe when she'd get bored of the city.

He focused on her warmth, on the strong arms around him, her thigh against his (okay, not too much on that, she'd gone to bed with only a shirt and underwear after all, he had to stop thinking about that), and he let his breathing slow with hers. This felt more like  _ home _ than anything ever before. 

Jaime woke up without Brienne, once again (it was a habit she would  _ have _ to lose). It was still early, so the chances of her having fled to go to work without saying goodbye were low. They'd left their luggage in the living room, so he couldn't verify, but he suddenly heard movement in the bathroom, relieved.

He stood by the door, leaning against the wall, waiting for her to exit. He realized as she opened it that he was positioned in a good way to accidentally startle her, but she didn't seem fazed to find him there. She laid her head against the doorway. "Hey," he said softly. "You keep disappearing on me."

Brienne held his gaze, open and aware and confident and  _ close _ . Her eyes expressed the same kind of resolve Jaime had found in them the first time they met. 

"Are you ever going to make a move?"

He stood up straight, instinctively looking at her lips, then averting his eyes. It was slightly unsettling, as it felt like a demand, questioning at the same time his intentions. "I'm just terrified of screwing things up," he replied quietly. He felt incredibly vulnerable, even though evidently she felt the same as him. 

He raised his eyes to hers. She said nothing for a moment, then, a swallow, a whisper. "And you think I'm not?" He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it for lack of anything relevant to reply. It was rhetorical question. Of course she was terrified.

When he stayed silent, still, Brienne had a slightly sad smile and turned to walk away. He caught her arm with his own, pulling her back to him (she could have resisted or simply walked off, but she didn’t, and he was encouraged). He wrapped himself around her, leaning his forehead against hers, echoing the end of their dance three nights before. This would not be an end. This would be a beginning.

Whoever kissed the other first, Jaime would never know. It had been slow, sweet, and both took the time explore, to touch, discover what made the other sigh. There would be more time for burning passion, he knew, to explore the skin he felt warm against his own.

They’d gone back to bed, revelling both in the tenderness they offered and received. He closed his eyes when she kissed his neck, a breathless moan escaping his lips. She laughed, and Jaime tried to tickle her in retaliation. Brienne seized both of his wrists, displaying once again the abilities that made her his physical match, preventing him from attacking him further. She had a playful frown. “No.” He watched her face, the confidence he revered so much showing in her eyes, in the slight curve of her smile, in the strong grip she had on him. Jaime felt himself echo that strength, and leaned forward to kiss her. “Yes,” he breathed, and she allowed him to come share her warmth.

That was a dance he could not wait to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KISSED
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to EVERYONE for the encouragement, feedback and general presence (also for requesting that I write more than just the first part, ahaha). This has been incredible for my self-esteem and my mood :D
> 
> I don't know if I'll write more of anything really, although it's not for lack of stories (I just rarely feel compelled to put anything down. I might do more of that now, though), but thank you for following this ride :D
> 
> If you have general impressions on the writing style, if anything bugged you or just observations, they'd be very appreciated.


End file.
